Unequivocal
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "It's not that Fukuda doesn't know who is it tangled into his sheets and sound asleep with his head on Fukuda's pillow; it's just that he can't figure out why Nizuma Eiji is in the break room instead of his own bedroom, and doubly so why he's using Fukuda's futon instead of the spare folded neatly in the corner after Mashiro's departure." Nizuma takes action and Fukuda capitulates.


Fukuda just wanted to get some sleep.

He doesn't know what time it is. It's better to stop checking the time after the sun goes down, he's learned; even with his chosen profession, there's still some part of him that balks at continued productivity after the early hours of the morning. It's more trouble than it's worth to accidentally check a glimpse of the time and have to spend ten minutes working himself back into the mental state he needs for drawing; so he leaves his phone in his pocket, and doesn't look up at the clock on the wall, and even when he finally pushes to his feet and says "I'm gonna crash for a bit" he has no idea how late into the night he's worked.

"Uh huh," Nakai says without looking up from his desk. He has dozens of sheets spread out around him, a handful done and more unfinished; Fukuda's not sure how many of them are Niizuma's and how many are Aoki's, and he doesn't bother trying to tell the difference. If Nakai wants to pull his second all-nighter in a row and work on both at once, it's no matter to him. "Sleep well."

"Yeah," Fukuda agrees, and moves away towards the darkened break room with his jaw already stretching on a yawn. As soon as he capitulated to the idea of sleep his whole body began to put up a cry for it, as if this single admission of weakness is enough to undo the hours of self-restraint he's been exerting over his physical needs for the sake of finishing the screentones for Niizuma's latest chapter. But it's fine now, it's done; all he has to do now is stumble into the break room, maybe pull the door shut behind him, and then he can fall onto his futon fully-clothed and sleep for a few hours before he stirs enough to strip down to a more comfortable state and pass out again.

When he opens the door, there's someone in his bed.

It's not a stranger. There's only three people in the studio since Mashiro quit, and Fukuda just left Nakai bent over the smooth planes of his desk with pen still in hand; besides, the narrow span of those shoulders never belonged to Nakai, and that hair is too pale even in the dim lighting to possibly be Mashiro's. It's not that Fukuda doesn't know who is it tangled into his sheets and sound asleep with his head on Fukuda's pillow; it's just that he can't figure out why Niizuma Eiji is in the break room instead of his own bedroom, and doubly so why he's using Fukuda's futon instead of the spare folded neatly in the corner after Mashiro's departure.

Fukuda stands in the doorway for a long moment, just staring into the dim-lit haze of the break room. Niizuma doesn't stir, even with the glow of the illumination and the weight of Fukuda watching him; but that's no surprise, really, Fukuda knows from personal experience how impossible it is to wake the other after he collapses into exhausted sleep. It would be easy to unfold the other futon, Fukuda knows, a matter of a very few minutes to shake out a blanket over the spare and cede his own bed over to Niizuma's use; but that doesn't answer the question of _why_ Niizuma would take his at all, and besides Niizuma's using the pillow Fukuda brought with him from home, and Fukuda never sleeps as well on the extra ones here.

"Fukuda-kun?" Nakai asks. When Fukuda glances back the other has stopped drawing for the first time in hours; the pen is still in his hand, but his attention has drawn sideways to linger at Fukuda instead. "You okay?"

"Ah," Fukuda says, and impulse acts for him, moving his feet forward over the entrance to the break room to finish out the action that was so stalled out by shock. "Yeah, no problem. Night."

"Goodnight," Nakai says, already looking back to what he's doing, and Fukuda draws the door shut behind him to leave himself in the dark with the problem Niizuma has presented to him.

He doesn't know what to do. He _should_ unfold the other futon, probably, and whenever Niizuma stirs himself back into consciousness Fukuda can explain about his pillow from home, and the unstated expectation that it is just for him as yet another one of the details of life that Niizuma so often needs explained explicitly before he understands them. There's no point in trying to wake Niizuma now, not when Fukuda knows he'll be completely incoherent and as likely to roll over and go back to sleep as listen; so he can't explain why it is that he's kneeling alongside the futon, why he's reaching out to close a gentle hold against Niizuma's shoulder and shake him into something halfway approximating consciousness.

"Hey," he says, softly, so it won't be startling to the other. "Niizuma-kun." Niizuma doesn't stir. Fukuda shakes a little harder, until the force of the motion is enough to knock a lock of the other's hair loose from behind his ear so it falls across his face. "Niizuma-kun, wake up, you're in my futon."

There's still no response. If Fukuda hadn't seen this before he would think Niizuma was feigning; he's never before known someone to sleep so deeply they can remain unconscious through light and voice and motion. But Niizuma has done this before, is doing it now, and even when Fukuda pushes the other off his side and onto his back his lashes don't so much as flutter. He just rolls over under the blanket, his head tipping to the side as he sighs in his sleep; his arm is angled across his body, his whole position slumped into absolute rest, and Fukuda goes still, locked to motionlessness by the part of Niizuma's lips on the steady rush of his breathing and the calm all across his expression. His features look softer without the tension of consciousness under them, the lines of his face more delicate than Fukuda has ever noticed before; there's something strangely endearing about the lopsided cut of hair across his forehead when it's only ever looked sloppy before, like the uneven strands are asking for Fukuda's touch to smooth them back into place. Fukuda's forehead creases, his breathing catching on startled warmth; and Niizuma's lashes shift, and his eyes open as he blinks up at Fukuda leaning over him with a hand on his shoulder.

He doesn't look at all surprised. Fukuda has a brief moment of wondering if the sleep before was all an act after all, for how calm Niizuma looks at seeing him; but then he says "Fukuda-sensei," and his voice is too slow and hazy to be anything but completely sincere. "Are you coming to sleep too?"

"Uh," Fukuda says. "Yeah. I was going to."

Niizuma yawns hugely, his eyes closing with the force of the reaction. "Welcome," he says, the word dragging heavy on sleep, and shifts against the futon without opening his eyes or apparently noticing Fukuda's touch at his shoulder. He reaches out with one hand to pat against the futon next to him. "Come to bed."

Fukuda blinks. "You're…" He pauses, clears his throat, tries for a gentler tone. "Niizuma-kun, you're in my futon."

"Yes," Niizuma says, and opens one eye to look up at Fukuda. His mouth is soft on sleep, dragging at the corners into something almost a frown; his shoulder is still relaxed under Fukuda's hold. "I was waiting for you."

Fukuda stares at Niizuma. Niizuma shuts his eye again, retreats into another expansive yawn; when he shifts his arm it's to pull it in closer against his chest, like he's settling himself into comfort. "Hurry up, Fukuda-sensei, I'm tired."

This seems fairly unequivocal. Even with his thoughts slowed on exhaustion and dragging through his mind, Fukuda can piece together the basic structure of what's going on: Niizuma in his futon, apparently deliberately, with enough direct invitation in his words and actions to leave no doubt as to his intention. He might be asleep still, could be talking from the space of a dream and the illusions that come with it without realizing what he's saying; but he called Fukuda by name, afforded him the title that no one other than Niizuma ever gives him, and his gaze was clear and calm even with the sleep-haze that is still clinging to his expression. But Fukuda can't make any sense at all of the invitation, of the offer made clear by the tangle of blankets and the weight of Niizuma's arm lying slack across his waist; Niizuma is acting as if this is normal, as if sleeping tangled together in the warmth of Fukuda's sheets is completely typical, and Fukuda might be tired but he's _sure_ he would remember this.

"Niizuma-kun," he says, and then, again, when Niizuma frowns and looks like he's thinking about ignoring Fukuda's voice, " _Niizuma-kun_ ," punctuating with a shake. Niizuma opens one eye again and Fukuda takes the opportunity to frown at him. "Look at me."

"I am looking at you," Niizuma informs him, but he turns his head anyway, blinking himself into obedient attention up at Fukuda's face. His hair is tangling across his forehead and caught into waves by the weight of his head pinning it to Fukuda's pillow. His mouth is still soft on the lingering weight of unconsciousness. Fukuda can feel his heart ache in his chest like it's being squeezed by some impossible pressure.

"What-" Fukuda starts, and then stops, because it's always easier to get an answer from Niizuma if he phrases his questions as directly as possible. "Do you want to sleep in my futon?"

"Yes," Niizuma says, sounding as patient as if this answer is stunningly obvious. Fukuda supposes it is, under the circumstances. "That's why I'm here."

Fukuda frowns harder. "With me?"

"Yes." Niizuma blinks, the motion slow and heavy with sleep, and reaches up for Fukuda's shirt. His fingers are stained with ink, the dark traces of past-drawn pages outlining his fingernails and pressing against the tips of his fingers. His hold is steady, unwavering even when he tugs against the other's shirt in unmistakeable demand. "Come to bed."

Fukuda stares at Niizuma. Niizuma's gaze is hazy, his mouth soft on the weight of his sleep and his arm heavy with exhaustion; but there's no hesitation in his eyes, no tension of uncertainty at his lips. He looks sleepy, and warm, and so sure of himself that it's undermining Fukuda's own certainty, unfastening all those parts of Fukuda's life that he had once thought were certain as stone under his feet. The world shifts, gravity dips out and away, and Fukuda lets himself be pulled in and dragged down to the tangle of blankets by a hold that ought to be easy to shake off, that ought to be something more fragile than the unbreakable hold it turns out to be. His shoulder lands at the futon, his head weights at the pillow, and Niizuma slides in against him without loosening his hold at Fukuda's shirt, pressing the warmth of his body against Fukuda and sighing the weight of relief against the other's chest. Fukuda's spine tenses, his breathing hitches on sudden, agonizing self-awareness; but Niizuma is relaxing, is giving way to the slack heaviness of sleep as immediately as if he only stirred for the sole purpose of pulling Fukuda down with him. The blanket isn't even over them, it's barely caught around Niizuma's bare feet; even when Fukuda reaches out to catch at the edge and pull it over Niizuma doesn't stir, there's not so much as a hiccup in the steady rhythm of his breathing. Fukuda lets the blanket fall around Niizuma's shoulders, fits it around the dip of his own waist; and then he takes a breath, and steadies himself, and reaches out to let his arm fall very gently around the slope of Niizuma's shoulders in front of him. Niizuma doesn't move - Fukuda is fairly sure the other is wholly absorbed by the weight of sleep, now - but Fukuda's exhaustion is evaporating with every breath he takes, his attention clinging with helpless focus to the sharp edge of Niizuma's shoulder pressing to his arm, to the damp heat of Niizuma's breathing slipping against the inside line of his collar. When he lifts his hand he can touch his fingers to the other's hair, can fit his fingertips to the soft give of the rough-cut locks; they're softer than he expected, the strands so fine they catch against the calluses along his knuckles and the rough texture left from sharp-edged paper on his fingertips. Fukuda slides his fingers against Niizuma's hair, presses his touch in gently against the other's scalp; and Niizuma makes a tiny noise against his shirt, and nuzzles in closer against him until his nose is almost touching Fukuda's collarbone.

Niizuma is sound asleep, Fukuda doesn't know for how long. Past experience says it'll be hours at least before the other stirs, that the tension of Niizuma's ink-dark fingers closed on Fukuda's shirt might be a tether to hold him here far longer than even his exhausted body wants to stay. But Fukuda is fitting the strands of Niizuma's hair against the drag of his fingers, and Fukuda's heart is pounding to breathless speed in his chest, and he doesn't make any attempt to slide back or pull away.

Right now, Fukuda thinks he'd be happy to stay like this for days.


End file.
